


Spark

by rougefox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Humor, F/M, Head Injury, Hopefully someone will read this!, I Don't Even Know, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Ocean, Picnics, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Timeline What Timeline, Weddings, Why Did I Write This?, drunk Sansa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:23:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6975328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rougefox/pseuds/rougefox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa overhears a conversation that causes her to question her safety and sanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. She’s Afraid of the Light in The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> George RR Martin owns the characters, Terry Prachett owns the etiquette, Tori Amos owns the background music.  
> I am super new to this fandom (I'm always the last one on the bus), but I have found it an amazing treasure trove of stories and talent. GRRM owns the characters.  
> The title and chapter headings are taken from a song by Tori Amos.  
> Also the Northern Wedding Sansa talks about in later chapters is written following the section on weddings in Nanny Ogg's Cook Book by the amazing Terry Prachett.
> 
> I have no beta so please excuse any typos or grievous violations of spelling and grammar
> 
> I hope someone out there finds this enjoyable!

Sansa had been hiding from Joffrey in the gardens when she had the ill luck to over hear a conversation between Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys. Usually she would ignore such discourse or flee least incur the wrath of the speakers, but they had been talking about her and it froze her to the spot.

 

_“….when he finally breaches the walls we might use her as a bargaining piece. Or a sacrifice. It's unclear as to what value the Stark girl has to Stannis, his red priestess is said to burn anyone with noble blood, including bastards.”_

_“I dislike the practices of his witch. But considering the actions of your father regarding the last princess in the tower, it might be mercy. Being raped by the Mountain with the blood and brains of your child still smeared on his person would be preferable to being burned alive.”_

_“Yes, that was unfortunate…”_

_“The small folk remember Elia Martell. I dare say another unfortunate brutal murder of a fair princess will turn them against Stannis. As tasteless as it would be.”_

_“But at the expense of such an innocent girl? Those are  the kind of thoughts that keep me up at night.”_

_“If only Lady Stark had protection. As it is she hides in the parts of the Keep where the Kingsguard fear to tread in case they encounter you. At least you have done her that kindness.”_

_“It is a sad day when all that stands between a fair maiden and a beating is a drawf. Protection you said? Perhaps we could find her some fair haired knight or I could have some of the Stone Crows escort her around…”_

_“Ser Ares is in Dorne, Ser Loras is out in the war on the wrong side and your wildlings would be almost as terrifying as the Hound to one with such a delicate disposition.”_

_“The Hound? That would be ideal. Who better to keep a lady from being burned alive or murdered by his brother? It's a useless idea though; Joffrey would only use the Hound to torment the poor girl.”_

_“The Hound is the only one of the Kingsguard the King doesn't use to abuse Lady Stark. Why do you think that is?”_

_“Sandor Clegane has been with Joffrey since he was born, but he's still a butcher. I imagine it's because Joff is either afraid that Clegane will kill her or knock him upside the head like he should have ten years ago.”_

_“Still, it's too bad. The Hound likes only two things as much as killing; whores and wine. It's too bad Lady Stark doesn't have rights to a vineyard and the other would be beneath her.”_

_“She's not Cersei.”_

_“No, she's a terrified maid of six and ten whose future holds death by fire or rape and dismemberment or being married to a boy who enjoys beating her like other men enjoy a nice walk on the beach. If it came down to dying horribly or spreading my legs for the second most dangerous man in the seven kingdoms, I would be on my back in a heartbeat.”_

_“You mean biting the pillows? Besides I've heard what they say about him. If even half of that is true she would be able to scarcely walk, let alone hide her activities!”_

The sudden appearance of Tyrion’s squire caused the men to move on. Sansa sat down in the dirt and shook. When she felt her legs would hold her, she fled back to the Keep.

 

She was almost to her room when Boros Blount caught her and half dragged her to King’s rooms.

 

The only Kingsguarrd present were Ser Boros, Ser Meryn and one of the Kettleblack brothers. The King was furious. Her uncle had destroyed a supply line and as a result Lannister troops had to raid villages for food. Sansa knew where this was headed. She hoped when the time came one of Kettleback brothers would be called forth because he never hit hard enough to bruise. No such luck; Ser Boros stepped forward and hit her hard across the back of her thighs with his sword.

 

_He wants me to buckle. He wants me to scream. I can deny him this; it's one more thing he can't take from me._

Sansa bit the inside of her mouth till she tasted blood. She heard her skirts rip where the blade touched them.

 

When Joff grew frustrated, he finally ordered one of the Kettleblack brothers to take her to her rooms. He was careful and let her set the pace till she could collapse on her bed. Her maid, Shae slammed the door in his face and produced a bottle of milk of the poppy from somewhere.  Sansa drank it down thankfully. Her head swam and she managed to stay awake long enough for Shae to pull her dress off her and pull a shift over her head.

 

Sansa dreamed she was back in Winterfell. She was warm and happy. She could feel Lady’s soft fur on the bed next to her.

 

The heavy knock on her door drug her into a fuzzy consciousness.

 

The voice was like the sound of a whet stone across the edge of a sword, “The Queen orders Lady Starks’s attendance at dinner tonight.”

 

“M’lady is asleep,” Shae hissed at him.

 

“Well then bloody well get her up,” he rasped back. “I don't have all fucking night!”

 

“You tell the Queen if she wants m’lady at dinner then her son shouldn't get _your brothers_ to beat her at lunch!” Shae slammed the door in the Hound’s face and bolted it.

 

Sansa smiled. If Shae’s words were a sword she would be the greatest warrior in the world.

 

“He could break the door down and drag me away,” she whispered to Shae. “He's done it before.”

 

“He doesn't scare me,” Shae smiled. “Where I come from we eat dogs.”

 

Sansa chuckled and let sleep take her once again.


	2. 6:58 Are Sure You Know Where My Spark Is?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post two chapters at the same time in hopes of giving people more to the story. There are trigger warnings all around; Sansa's high, suicidal thoughts, abuse, The Hound gets under her skirt etc. I promise the tone of the next chapter will be as light and fluffy as a bunny with a pancake on its head!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no beta, sorry.

 It was dark out when Sansa awoke. The pain in her thighs was back. Shae had been kind enough to leave another bottle of milk of the poppy on her night stand and she thankfully drank it down.

 

Instead of making her sleepy, it made her restless. Emboldened by the ebb of pain in her legs she decided to go for a walk. By the position of the moon it was late and chances were she would meet no one if she kept to her tower. Slipping a dress over her head and wrapping herself in a cloak, Sansa crept out of her room and up the stairs. She had never been to roof of Maegor’s Holdfast, but surly no one would be there this late.

 

The view was amazing. She could see the whole city all the way to the Great Sept of Baelor behind her was Blackwater Bay. The wind was blowing her hair into her face and threatened to rip her cloak off her shoulders. A thin crescent moon and a million stars lit up the sky. Sansa breathed in the air, up here it was clean away from the stench of the city. For one fleeting moment she imagined herself standing on the battlements of Winterfell. When she opened her eyes and was greeted by the Red Keep her heart fell. She was a princess in a tower. A real one, not the kind Princes rescue.

 

As Sansa walked the roof, she wondered if anyone ever went up there. A spark went off in her head stopping her with a sickening lurch. Her mind pulled forth her history; during the Dance of the Dragons there was a Queen imprisoned in the tower, Helaena Targaryen. By all accounts she had been sweet and loved but still had her children murdered and threw herself from the top of Maegor’s Holdfast to die on the spikes in the moat.

 

Sansa had a wild moment; she imagined she was on the spot where Helaena jumped. Kneeling on the edge of the roof she leaded over to see if the moat was below her.  A gust of wind caught her cloak and pulled her toward the void below. Her mind wild with milk of the poppy thought about letting go. She leaned forward stretched one arm out, her heart hammered in her chest. She thought about lifting her other arm when her shoulder was caught in a grip like iron.

 

“The little bird thinks she has wings? Or do you want to end up a cripple like your brother?”

 

“Not from this height,” she whispered.

 

The Hound spun her around to face him. The wind was blowing his long hair away from his face. She could see every crevice, every crater, the stub of his ruined ear. That wasn't the worse part, his eyes burned with hate. The wind brought tears to her eyes, the milk of the poppy was wearing off and the pain from her thighs began to come back. She flinched.

 

“Still can't bare to look at me,” he snarled at her.” You welcomed my ugly face when the mob almost had you on your back.”

 

The bread riot still gave her nightmares. She remembered the man who was pulling her off her horse. The Hound had cut his arm off before mounting her horse and riding back to the Keep cutting down all in their way.

 

“I'm sorry my lord, I should have sought you out sooner to thank you for saving me.” The back of her legs started to burn.

 

He snarled something back at her; it was hard to pay attention.

 

“Why do you always have to be so hateful?” _Just let me go. Please just let me go back to my room._

 

Sansa could see his mouth moving but was in so much pain she couldn't tell what he was saying. His sword was at her throat, so sharp she knew she wouldn't even feel it. He was trying to scare her, but for the first time it wasn't working. She heard Jeyne’s shrieking after the Lannisters massacre her father’s men from Winterfell; “ _They killed everyone! I tried to hide, but The Hound broke down the door with a war hammer!”_ Sansa wasn't afraid. He had already done the worst he could do to her. He butchered the people who loved her and tried to keep her safe, he had shown her the severed head of her father. He had brought her to be beaten and humiliated by Joffery. She would have laughed in his scarred, ugly face if she didn't hurt so much.

 

For some reason she remembered a dog that had been chained up outside the blacksmith’s forge in Wintertown. It had been a big, shaggy, brown mongrel, missing an ear and a tail. It hated everyone but the blacksmith. “Dogs love whoever feeds them,” he had told her when she went on a visit with her father. “I found him half-starved and feral. But I fed him and he started licking my hand instead of biting it. Now he keeps the rats and wolves away from house.”

 

Sansa thought of the conversation in the garden.  He had already chased off the rats, but would he keep the lions at bay? Would he keep his brother from killing her at the Kings orders?.  Varys had planted the seed of survival, she didn't know if she could go through with it. He was so very ugly inside and out.

 

“Fly away little bird, I'm sick of you peeping at me, “thankfully he was done with his tirade. She tried to fly down the steps, but where Boros Blount had hit her with his sword earlier nearly buckled her knees. She hissed and grabbed the back of her thigh. The milk of the poppy was gone. _Mother, Maiden, just get me down these stairs please!_ Sansa made it a few more steps before her legs give out and she had to claw and the stone wall to keep from falling down the stairs She felt the iron grip on her shoulder again. Before she could fight back she was spun around to face the wall. She could feel her skirts being lifted and for a horrible moment she realized there was one thing he could do to her to make her fear him again.

 

“No! Let go of me!” She tried to squirm out of his grasp and failed. She could feel the cold wind on the back of her legs, her skirts were pulled up to hips. He let out a hiss and she knew what he was looking at; long straight welts haloed by dark purple bruises. She can feel the pressure behind her eyes, the humiliation was worse than the actual beating. He ran his hand gently down her thigh over the welts and she flinched.

 

“Please let me go.”

 

He didn’t. Instead he dropped her skirt and spun her around to face him. She never realized how massive he was, he blocked out the light from the torches on the opposite wall. She could hear him breathing, raspy and deep; he was angry and she was glad she couldn't see his face.

 

“Who?” it was more of a demand than a question.

 

“Ser Boros” she whispers. “Joffrey was mad. He knew better than to beat me in the throne room with his uncle around so he ordered me to his rooms.”

 

How did he _not_ know? It suddenly occurred to her he had not been there when she was dragged in.

 

She heard The Hound sigh and with one quick motion she was over his shoulder and he was walking down the stairs. She wanted to kick him, beat on his back and scream to put her down, but she was too tired. So she let herself go limp. It would be romantic if his shoulder wasn’t digging into her stomach and all the blood was running to her head. He smelled of wine and sweat and musk. It was better than the smell of Joffrey, last year his smell of rose soap was sweet and pleasing. Now he reeked a putrid, sickly sweet smell that made her want to retch if she got too close.

 

The Hound entered her room with no problem. There was no guard at her door; her maids were long gone.

 

“Back in your cage, little bird,” he said dropping her lightly on her feet. Before she could manage to thank him, he spun her around. Sansa could feel his hands at the laces of her dress running down her back. She gasped as he pulled them out, his big hands surprisingly nimble. She was trembling, but not from fear.

 

The Hound gently swept her hair off her neck. Sansa could feel his breath on the spot where her neck met her shoulder. She thought he was going to kiss her but instead he traced the curve of her neck with one finger before dragging it lightly down her spine.

 

Sansa felt her entire body shiver under his touch. She felt like every inch was covered in goose flesh and she could feel her face grow hot. For one wild moment she wanted him to kiss her, to take her dress off and touch her, everywhere.

 

Instead he left. She bolted the door behind him.


	3. She’s Convinced She Could Hold Back a Glacier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank every single last one of you for the encouragement and suggestions. I feel like a kid who finally made it to the adult's table at Christmas dinner. Thank you for not rejecting me because I metaphorically spilled gravy on my lap! 
> 
> If only one person out 100 find this chapter amusing, it would be amazing.
> 
> Again, there is no beta. I also wrote this mostly on my iphone on a stupid long plane flight. Maybe I should add the tag "It was funny when I was jet lagged"

 

The next morning Maester Pycelle was at her door. Sansa didn't want to let him in but Shae did anyway. He tutted and gave disappointing looks at the back of her thighs. Shae held her shift in place so the Maester only saw what needed to be seen. In the end he gave her ointments and instructions for rest. Sansa once again had to refrain herself from laughing; staying in her room would guarantee being at Joffrey’s beck and call.

 

She was feeling better.  Her legs were wobbly, but not useless. Her mind was still fuzzy from the milk of the poppy. When she got out of bed she nearly tripped over a discarded dress on the floor.

 

  _Did I really go on the roof?_ She prodded the dress with her foot hoping it would yield some answers.

 

“Oh my lady! I am so sorry!” her other maid Leeha appeared with her morning meal. “I meant to hang that up last night, but I didn’t want to disturb you.”

 

Sansa picked up the garment. The laces on the bodice were missing.

 

***

 

As she broke her fast Sansa practiced her morning meditation on where to hide that day. There were only a few places in the Red Keep that were relatively safe, mostly due to their relation to people who could rebuff Joffrey’s authority. The godswood and sept were never completely safe havens and she would never think to climb the Tower of the Hand without an invitation (even though Lord Tyrion had stated she was welcome any time after that awful public humiliation Joffrey had gleefully put her through). She finally decided on the library. Everyone knew Tyrion often visited there so (hopefully) Joffrey wouldn’t dare send his monsters there to fetch her.

 

The library was usually empty so Sansa was surprised to see a familiar face when she arrived.

 

Tyrion’s sellsword was sitting in one of the window alcoves eating an apple.

 

“Good morning m’lady,” he smiled.

 

“Good morning my lord,” she returned, (she couldn’t for the life of her remember his name).

“I was unaware that you enjoyed literature so much,” she smiled in case that sounded too condescending.

 

“Of course I do!” he announced and gestured around the room. “I love the works of…..you know… the guy with the funny mustache… They do his plays sometimes out in the square, you know the play were the queen of fairies falls for that guy with the head of an ass? ”

He looked pained.

 

“Tell the Hand I am grateful for his concern, but I am safe, nobody comes up here,” she said dutifully. She leaned forward and whispered “I don't even think His Grace knows there is a library.”

 

The sellsword barked out a laugh. “As much as I would love to bugger off to enjoy other amusements this morning, The Hand told me to stay here.” He leaned in closer, “You don't know what happened today in the training yard, do you?”

 

Sansa swallowed louder than she meant to, “No my lord, I do not.”

 

He raised his eyebrows and whispered “I really shouldn't tell you this, you being a proper lady and all…”

 

_You just said “bugger” in front of me and you’re worried about some gossip?_

“It was Boros Blount, from the Kingsguard, the Hound gutted him during training this morning.”

 

 ***

 

It turned out that Bronn didn't know how to read, but did enjoy books with large, intricate illuminations. Sansa pulled down the volumes that illustrated the Dance of the Dragons and told him the story while he looked at the pictures. He liked the ones portraying the battles, but when she showed him a portrait of Helaena Targaryen he exclaimed, “A nice plump woman with good hair and pretty smile, nothing better in life!”

 

Sansa had developed a tolerance for his impropriety, “She rode a dragon called Dreamfyre.”

 

“Even better!” He laughed.

 

They had reached the end of the volume right as Princess Rhyenera was stealing the Iron Throne. Sansa snapped it shut and wandered among the shelves to fetch the next tome. She could hear Bronn whistling to himself faintly as she moved deeper into the library; she was glad for his presence. His harsh language and gruff demeanor was welcome over Joffrey’s sneering and Cersei’s honey coated insults.

 

Sansa found the spot she was looking for and squeezed the heavy book back into place. When she pulled the next volume out a small brown book fluttered to the floor. Gently she set down the tome and picked up the small book.

 

_It must be an appendix or something._

She opened the front cover and saw it was written in a language she couldn't understand. The only word she could make out was “Lys”, so she flipped through the book to see what it was.

 

There were no words, just wood cuts of men and women doing… _things._ No one was wearing any clothes and the only details were on their… parts. The women had rosy nipples and shiny open… flowers. The men had huge…. members, all covered in veins with huge mushroom ends. Page after page of people twining their bodies together in ways she didn't understand. There were women with a man’s member in her mouth while his mouth was on her flower. Men sticking their members in women's flowers and backsides. A group of men forcing their members into one woman, a group of women all over one man, two men together, two women together, and the last page had a bunch of men and women trying to fit themselves together like a giant wood block puzzle.

 

Sansa studied the last wood cut. She didn't know what was more confusing; why anyone would do that or how every single person in every single wood cut had the same blank expression on their face. She did know the blush that started on her cheeks had reached her neck. Her body felt prickly all over, she squirmed in disgust and curiosity.

 

“Little bird?”

 

Sansa gasped and dropped the book at the Hound’s feet.

 

_How did he find me?_

The book fluttered down and unfortunately landed open displaying a woman being taken from behind by a man. 

 

To her horror he looked down and chuckled.

 

“A little reading for Tyrion’s pet sellsword?” He shook his head and tutted at her,” How improper.”

 

Sansa dove for the book and tried to cram it on the shelves. “Someone misshelved this! I was reading about the Dance of the Dragons!” She picked up her tome and shook it at him.  “It was written by a Maester! Bronn was only looking at the pictures!”

 

The Hound chuckled at her again, “I’m sure that was all he was looking at.” His eyes left her face and settled at the neck line. Her embarrassment had cooled her blood but then she remembered the way his hands had felt on her back the night before. She felt a shiver go down her spine.

 

_That didn’t happen! It was a dream caused by milk of the poppy!_

 

_So where did the laces of your dress go?_

 

The blush was back. She hugged the tome to her chest, turned and fled among the shelves.

 

Bronn looked up when she burst forth panting and red. He smiled at her.

 

“You took your sweet time, get lost?” he chuckled. His smile disappeared when he saw the Hound behind her. “How in the seven hells did you get in here?”

 

“The King is looking for her,” he rasped.

 

Bronn shook his head and rose from his seat, “Well she's not going with you.”

 

He was suddenly at her side so fast Sansa dropped her book.

 

“Go find some other lady to chase up a tree, dog, because this one is having lunch in the Tower of the Hand.” Bronn grasped her arm and pulled her out of the library. She looked back and saw the Hound filling the door way. His arms were crossed and a horrible scowl twisted his face.

 

 ***

 

Tyrion’s eye brows lifted in surprise when Bronn walked through the door with Sansa on his arm. Sansa curtsied.

 

“Are we collecting beautiful young women for charity?”

 

“Something like that,” Bronn poured a glass of wine and offered it to Sansa. She politely refused so he drained and refilled it. “The Hound found her in the library, said His Grace wanted her.”

 

Bronn used the same tone for “His Grace” as he had for the word “arsehole”.

 

Tyrion sat back from his reading and rubbed his eyes. “Well that is concerning, especially after what happened this morning.”

 

“I am sorry to hear of Ser Boros’ passing,” Sansa perked up remembering to be courteous. Tyrion was a Lannister. She still had to be careful around him; even after all he had done for her.

 

“I'm sure you will mourn his passing after all he did to you my lady,” Tyrion said dryly. He lifted his wine glass, “To Ser Boros he shall be remembered for his great deeds.”

 

“More like for being the third biggest wanker in the Seven Kingdoms,” Bronn snickered.

 

Tyrion shot him a disapproving look.

 

 He turned to Sansa and said, “My dear lady Sansa, I understand you needing to be unavailable to our King and his company this afternoon, but unfortunately I am far too busy to entertain anyone right now.” He motioned for more wine. “So I believe I shall have to entrust your person to my associates and move you some place inaccessible to my nephew.”

 

He thought for a moment then called for his squire.

 

“Pod, take the Lady Sansa and two of the Stone Crows to the Cove. Go to the kitchens and have them pack a picnic basket.”

 

Tyrion turned back to her,” You will be perfectly safe as this beach is inaccessible from the city.“

 

“Oh, you mean that little sandy patch on the other side of the walls by the barracks for the goldcloaks?” Bronn interjected. “You should be fine m’lady. I escort high born ladies there all the time and it’s perfectly safe.”

 

Tyrion choked on his wine and shot Bronn a nasty look that made the sellsword laugh.

 

Tyrion turned to her and said “I must apologize for my companion’s rudeness.” Sansa didn’t quite understand. “Just don't try to swim to Gulltown, alright?”

 

Sansa smiled, “Of course my Lord Hand. May I bring my maid?”

 

“Of course, you and Shae have grown close,” Tryon replied.  

 

Sansa wondered how Tyrion knew the name of her favorite maid, but dismissed it as she desperately wanted to get out of the Keep.


	4. Ballerinas that have Fins that You’ll Never Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has one moment of happiness and begins to lose her sanity after Joffrey tries to ruin it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of you are amazing readers and I love every single last one of you. 
> 
> Unfortunately I did something stupid and became a productive member of society with a new job that wont allow me to goof off and write fan fiction when I am supposed to be pretending to work. 
> 
> So I'm posting as much as I can to keep me motivated to finish this story. 
> 
> I'm not totally happy with this chapter, but I like the next couple of chapters so I want to get this out here to (hopefully) move the story along.
> 
> Warning: Sansa's disgust of Joffrey is pretty graphic.
> 
> Again. please excuse my grammar, spelling or typos.

The Cove turned out to be a small stretch of sand and sea grass above a nest of boulders. It had only been accessible by a labyrinth of hallways under the Keep. Poddrick had to stop and back track a couple of times before he found the exit.

 

The whole area had been teaming with life. Huge seals sunned themselves on the boulders, snorting and barking, looking for all the world like huge brown slugs flopping their fat bodies around. But when they dove in the water they transformed; they became graceful and agile,  long, sleek bodies spinning under the clear water, dancing around each other snapping at the schools of little fish swimming among the rocks. There had been a mother otter, cracking a crab for her pup curled up on her stomach. The baby made squeaking little mewing noises in between crabs that made Sansa giggle like she hadn't since she left Winterfell.

 

Sansa licked her lips and could tasted where the sea had kissed her as she had squatted on the boulders to watch crabs with iridescent purple shells scuttle in the tide pools. It had been very unladylike but the wine from lunch and the company had made her not care. Bronn had joined them in the late afternoon and had managed to pull a giant red star fish from one of the boulders. Sansa and shrieked and giggled when the waving underside grasped at her fingers when he placed it in her hand. She had been too timid to touch the spiny purple sea urchin, Shae had held it gently, but dropped it back into the water when it moved.

 

As she had Shae sat on the rocks drinking wine and eating raspberries, Bronn cast a fishing line from the beach. They had laughed and giggled as Pod tried his hand with a reel, but failed miserably. It seemed he could only hook seaweed and once a slimy orange octopus. Bronn had barked out corrections and encouragement at the boy, but gave up after he had caught a few small fish he said he was going to fry for his dinner. Sansa had watched the poor things open and close their mouths, expand their gills hopelessly, desperately for water.

 

Shae had shaken her out of her horror to point out the pod of dolphins way out in the bay playing in the fading light. They're shiny grey bodies shooting out of the surf just for the joy of being alive.

 

All to soon the wine had been drunk, the food had been eaten and the sun started to set. The tide started to come in and erase any evidence of their afternoon.

 

It was dark by the time Sansa returned to her room. She was still a little tipsy so she threw herself on her bed. She smiled with contentment. Tyrion had blessed her with an afternoon so perfect she wished she could set up a shack and live by the sea for the rest of her life.

 

A soft knock at the door broke her revere. She had given Shae the night off and sent Poddrick back to kitchen with the empty basket. _Maybe somebody fried up those fish._

 

She entertained the idea of dining with Tyrion in the Tower of the Hand, but wasn’t thrilled at the idea of experiencing what Bronn would consider appropriate table etiquette.

She opened the door, her smile vanished as she looked up at the face of the Hound.

 

“The King demands your presence at dinner,” he scowled at her through his hair. “Where were you?”

 

“The Tower of the Hand” Sansa stammered.

 

“Liar.”

 

She felt the blood leave her face. Her hair was down and tossed by the wind. Her skirts were still damp around the hem and she had a sun burn across her cheeks. She swallowed hard.

 

“Please don't make me go. It was such a good day.”

 

“Do as your bid, little bird,” he sighed. For a second she thought she saw something that looked like pity in his eyes before he turned and stood with his back to the door.

 

 _He's trapping me in here._ She shut the door and called for her remaining maid to bring a bath and a fresh gown.

 

***

She tried walking slowly but The Hound placed his large hand at the small of her back and gently pushed her along.

 

“Hurry up girl,” he rasped at her. “If you keep dragging your feet I'm going to have to carry you.”

 

“It's not as if you haven't done it before,” she said under her breath.

 

Sansa could feel his eyes on her and she sped up her pace. _Was that even him?_ She wondered if it had all been a delirious dream from too much milk of the poppy. He had cut down her family’s men, terrorized her best friend with a war hammer, and shown her the severed head of her father…. How had he made her shiver like that?

_I am going mad. Is this place finally breaking me?_

Joffrey’s private dining room was furnished with a large table big enough to host twenty people. Sansa hoped the Queen or one of his siblings would join them, but her luck failed her. The King gestured to the seat on his right.

 

She curtsied, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

“Where were you, you stupid girl?” Joffrey snapped at her. “I’ve been waiting for a half an hour! Seven help you if the food is cold.”

 

Thankfully the food was warm and flavorful; fish soup, beef steak in hollandaise sauce, roasted duck, rich whipped potatoes, ham baked with a brown sugar glaze and candied plums. Sansa ate little. The smell radiating from Joffrey had clouded her senses, making everything taste like rotting seaweed. She knew it supposed to be rose soap, but to her it smelled sickly sweet as if his skin was decaying. She looked at the Kingsguard and the Hound but they didn't seem to detect anything amiss.

 

“You never answered my question, Lady Sansa,” Joffrey sneered. “I sent for you earlier, where were you?”

 

Sansa set down her knife and fork, “I was up on the battlements watching the sea.”

 

Joffrey scoffed, “Sounds boring.” He cut off a slice of beef. “I should expect no less from such a vapid girl.” He stuffed the meat in his mouth. In the big room the sound of his teeth grinding against it almost echoed. Sansa pushed her plate away.

 

“I saw the seals down in Blackwater Bay,” she said trying to drown out the sound of his mastication. “They are very clumsy while on land but very nimble when they slid into the water.”

 

“Fat, smelly, rats,” Joffrey retorted, then motioned for more wine. “I think tomorrow I shall take my new cross bow up on the walls and use them for target practice.”

 

_He’ll do it to. Everything you love, he will destroy because it makes him happy to see you hurt._

 

“What say you, dog? Want to join me in the fun?”

 

The Hound stirred by the wall behind the King. His voice like gravel, “Sounds like a waste of good bolts, Your Grace. Better to save them to shoot rioters from the wall by the Iron Gate.”

 

Joffrey threw his head back and laughed. Sansa watched his golden curls shake. At one time they enchanted her, now she wished she could have the pleasure of watching Robb’s men hold his severed head by his hair.

 

Joffrey speared a candied plum and regarded her closely.

 

“Why aren't you eating?”

 

“Your Grace, I am not hungry.”

 

His eyes narrowed, “There are people starving out in the city and you're not hungry?”

 

_They're starving because you started a war when you chopped off my father’s head!_

“Your Grace…”

 

“Shut up you stupid girl, I should have my dog force feed you!” He eyed her from over his cup. “You look like a peasant; you're too skinny, with that horrible redness on your face…”

 

He put down his cup, “Since you don’t eat and you come to me looking like a servant, than you shall be treated like one. You shall serve for the remainder of this meal.” He smiled,” And if you do a good job, you won't have to do it for the next one.”

 

Sansa could feel the humiliation deep in the pit of her stomach.

 

  _At least he isn't going to beat me._

 

She tried. She really tried, but having no experience serving food meant she made mistakes. She couldn't slice the ham properly, so Joffrey made her cut up the whole thing till she got it right. She could barely move the heavy serving platters, Joff got the Kingsguard in the room to laugh with him when she spilled hot grease from the duck down the front of her dress. She could feel the hot fat scorching her skin through the fabric. When she spilled wine on the table cloth he bounced a roll off her head leaving seeds and a patch of butter in her hair.

 

When he didn't need her, Sansa stood behind her chair while Joffrey guzzled wine, told the Kingsguard dirty jokes (some at her expense) and graphically described the punishments he had doled out that day. The only forced laugh she didn't hear was the Hound’s. She dared a sideways glance at him behind Joffrey and he looked like he always did; scowling and bored, staring around the room, but not at her.

 

Sansa tried to focus on the memories of the afternoon. She wasn’t isn’t this horrible room with a sadistic monarch, her belly and thighs sting from the scolding fat; she was down by the sea shore watching the otter feed it’s mewing pup.

 

_If he could he would find that otter and skin it’s pup in front of you just to make you weep._

She slightly shook her head.

 

Sansa had always been of two minds on every thought, action and word she spoke. Her years of training how to be proper and courteous built a wall around her more vulgar and base feelings. Sometimes little things would get through (like when she had stated she hoped the Others got Janos Slint when Lord Tyrion sent him to The Wall) but the consequences for such slip ups were so much worse than at Winterfell that she prided herself on her continuing mastery.

 

“ _Lady_ Sansa,” the King’s mocking tone brought her out of her thoughts. “Look, the dessert course is here!”

 

He gestured to a large dish of fig pudding being placed by a servant on the side board behind her. She turned and spooned a portion into a porcelain bowl and set it in front of the King.

 

“Gods you stink,” Joffrey put his napkin over his nose. “Go stand over there! You’re putting me off my food!”

 

She knew her soiled dress reeked of fat and singed silk. She took her place behind her chair.

 

_You have to get out of here._

But how?

A memory, long buried surfaced in her mind; something Arya had done as a little girl. Septa Mordane had reprimanded her for something and Arya, in her rage, had held her breath till she passed out. Sansa remembered how she had puffed her cheeks out like a chipmunk with a mouthful of seeds, and then turned blue before falling over. Mother had been incensed, father had laughed, Maester Luwin said she would be fine.

 

It would be juvenile and a stupid, silly action.  Completely undignified and held the possibility for humiliation.

 

_As if standing here with butter in your hair and grease on your skirts isn't humiliating enough? He once had you stripped and beat with melon in your hair! You think this torment is going to end at a little spilled food?_

 

It might not work.  

 

_At least you tried._

It might cause an injury.

 

_Good! Then you’ll defiantly be able to leave!_

Sansa sighed and let all the air out of her lungs. If she puffed up her cheeks, Joffrey would notice but hopefully he wouldn't pay attention when she turned blue.

 

After a few moments her body started screaming for air. She gripped the back of the chair and fixed her eyes straight ahead. She started seeing star burst on the edge of her vision. All the sounds became muffled, like everyone was a long way off. She saw movement to her side and looked right at the Hound.  His eyes were wide in shock, she almost lost her concentration.

 

_Just a few more seconds!_

She watched him take a step towards her, but her eye site faded to black and she mercifully slipped into unconsciousness.


	5. Doubting if there is a Woman in there Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finds out her night has just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I love you all, I wrote this chapter on my phone while I was suppose to be listening to a motivational speaker at work. I decided pretty fast that I would rather make my readers happy than achieving "self actualization in the work place". 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Still no beta, but I did get a lot of weird looks from my coworkers.

The light hurt. To Sansa it was so bright it felt like a hot poker drilling through her eyes.

 

“Oh good, she's awake,” the statement sounded like it came from on a long way off.

 

 “Look at the light, child,” it hurt so she tried to blink but strong hands held her eyes open.

 

“Do you know where you are Lady Stark?”

 

“No,” she answered. The last thing she remembered she had been in Joffrey’s dining room, now she was on a bed.

 

“She sounds normal to me.”

“Joffrey, be quiet. The girl has had a fall!” _Lord Tyrion._

_“_ Her eyes are not properly reacting to the light and she is disoriented. She can not be allowed to sleep tonight. I must warn you that she will act irrationally so she must be watched till dawn.” _Must be a Maester._

“We’ll summon a Septa or one of her maids to sit with her,” said Tyron. “ Pod come here!”

 

“Oh NO!” Joffrey sneered. “She did this to herself, she gets no such luxuries! DOG!”

 

She heard the Hound’s heavy foot steps. “Yes Your Grace?” he sounded annoyed.

 

“You will sit with the _Lady_ Sansa till dawn. Your ugly face should keep her awake! Although I have to warn you, her conversational skills are lacking, she might have you falling asleep out of boredom!” She heard the door slam.

 

The Maester sounded agitated, “My Lord Hand, this is more than improper!”

 

“Lady Sansa?” Tyrion was next to her ear. “Would you like me to go get Shae?”

 

She tried to form the words but all she could do is groan. It was too bright! His voice was too loud in her ear.

 

“Relax, imp,” the Hound’s voice was still harsh but mercifully quieter than the rest. “I've had my chimes rung enough times, I know what to expect. And I'm not going to run around flustered when she starts cursing or vomits all over herself.”

 

“I'm sure you have a healing touch, Clegane,” Tyrion’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “But Lady Sansa is-“

 

“Not as high born as Myrcella or the Queen. Your father had no problem with me watching over them. Now bugger off, I'm sure someone is missing you. Don't worry about me, I know my place.”

 

“I swear to all the gods dog,” Tyrion hissed under his breath. “If you do anything even the slightest bit inappropriate tonight I will-“

 

“Sic your pet sellsword on me? Or one of your wildings?” The big man laughed. “I'd welcome the few minutes of entertainment that might give me.”

 

“I'll fuck up your pay!” Tyrion said with deadly conviction.

 

Sansa sighed when she heard the door close.

 

“That was a nice trick Little bird.”

 

“It worked didn't it?”

 

“Better than when Joff would do it ten years ago. I would always catch him and knock the wind back into him.”

 

Sansa tried to laugh but she felt lightening bolts of pain behind her eyes. “ Could you please snuff the candles? It's too bright in here.”

 

Slowly the room darkened till only the light from the fire remained, “Don't go to sleep, little bird. You might not wake up.”

 

Before she could stop herself she blurted out, “Don't tease me.”

 

She heard him sigh and the sound clinking metal as he sat down on a chair near her bed.

 

“You've hit your head pretty hard, your going to say things you've never even thought before," he said softly.

 

Sansa sniffed. She could just make out his hulking outline in the dark.

 

“Personally I'm looking forward to your lack of retched courtesy and boring platitudes," Th Hound continued with a hint of mockery in his voice. She thought he was smiling.

 

She scowled at him. Her brain felt fuzzy. She wanted to say the most unladylike things to him. Instead she blurted out,”I smell like duck fat.”

 

“Then change your clothes.”

 

She reached up and felt her head, she had a knot the size of a plum where she fell.

 

“I need help. Your going to have to wake one of my maids.”

 

She heard him get up and walk across the room to the door. He opened it and started talking to someone on the other side.

 

Sansa reached up and carefully removed the pins holding her braids and shook her head.

 

It was the wrong thing to do, the room swam and twisted before her eyes. She put her head in her hands to try and stop the room from spinning.

 

The Hound was yelling “I don't give two shits about what you were told, I'm telling you to go find the bitch!”

 

Sansa couldn't hear the response.

 

“Not that one! The blond! She's probably blowing some gold cloak around here somewhere!” He closed the door softly.

 

She could hear the clinking of his armor in front of her.

 

“Are you going to wretch?” he asked softly.

 

 His boot nudged her camber pot next to her foot. The smell from her dress was making her feel sick.

 

“I don't have anything to wretch up,” she replied.

 

Sansa put her head between her knees. She heard the clink of armor and crinkle of leather as he knelt down in front of her. She heard rustle as he removed his gloves and felt his hands gently unwind her hair from its intricate braid.

 

“Little bird?” he said so softly she wasn't sure she heard it.

 

He was so close, she reached a hand out pressed her palm against his breast plate. The metal felt cold on her hand. Without a thought of propriety or even self discipline she slipped off her bed and pressed her cheek and hands to the metal. The chill felt good against her feverish skin. She felt him wrap his arm around her shoulders and his breath on the crown on her head.

 

“Please stop hurting yourself,” he whispered into her hair.

 

Before she could respond he grasped her shoulders and shoved her back on the bed before standing up. The door opened.

 

“My lady? You needed me?” Leeha entered the room, her hair was ruffled and her dress was askew.

 

“Its about time!” The Hound snarled at her. “Put her in something that doesn't smell like rancid fat.”

 

He stormed out the door, shutting it softly behind him.


	6. You Say you Don’t Want it Again and Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa confronts the Hound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of love for you guys out there! Your comments are as precious as dragon eggs to me!

 

 

Leeha had helped her clean the food out of her hair and the grease that had soaked through her dress. She also helped Sansa pull a thick linen shift over her head. It was loose with a conservative neck line, long sleeves and a hem that fell to her ankles. She felt like a little girl in her father's tunic.

 

Sansa sat on her bed watching the Hound out of the corner of her eye. He had taken off his armor while she had cleaned up and was dressed in a simple tunic and breeches. He sat by her open window sharpening his sword with a whetstone. His brows were furrowed in concentration, his mouth a straight line. He looked bored and slight annoyed. There was a dark circle under the eye on his good side. She figured he was probably lacking in sleep as much as she was.

 

“Stop staring at me girl,” he growled at her. “Find something to do.”

 

“I can't read or work on my sewing,” she said softly. “The light hurts my eyes.”

 

He shrugged, “I could go get that book I caught you with in the library this morning. You could show me the pictures, tell me a story.”

 

Sansa felt her blush reach her toes. She wanted to hide under the bed in her shame.

 

"I told you, someone misshelved that," she said.

 

He chuckled.

 

Think of anything else to talk about! Anything!

 

_Tell him to go get it. Watch what he does._

 

That's….. ridiculous.

 

_Or it might be fun to watch him squirm for a change._

 

In desperate need to change the subject she blurted out, “Did you really gut Ser Boros this morning?”

 

He scoffed. “Idiot's squire didn't fasten his plate correctly. I saw an opening, my sword went into his side. Hardly gutting a man.”

 

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound was the grinding of the whetstone against steel. It made Sansa’s teeth ache so she tried to make conversation again.

 

“I didn't walk on the walls today.”

 

“I know.”

 

“How?”

 

He looked at her now, “ You're a horrible liar. Joffrey doesn't care enough to pay attention, but I can tell. Your hair was tousled, you have a sun burn across your cheeks and you reeked of the ocean.”

 

Sansa pulled her knees to her chest.

 

“I went to the Cove for a picnic,” she said quietly.

 

His whetstone fell on the floor with a clatter.

 

“You left the Keep? Are you fucking stupid? Did you forget how I had to cut a man’s arm off to keep you from getting what Lollys Stokworth got?” he snarled.

 

“It's protected!” She countered. “ I was with some of Lord Tyrion's wildlings, Poddrick Payne and Shae.”

 

“A maid, wildlings and a squire whose main job is to fetch wine for a whore hopper!” he retorted.

 

“Bronn showed up later,” she said quietly.

 

The Hound crossed the room and grasped her forearm with his iron grip.

 

"Don't leave the Keep again.” His voice sounded threatening like distant thunder.

 

Sansa felt her self control slipping. She was tired, hungry and something was happening inside her head that she didn't understand. The little voice who spoke out of turn, the one who said nasty things and had wicked ideas took control of her mouth.

 

“Or what?” Sansa blurted out. “You'll beat me with the flat of your sword? Or just tell Joffrey so he'll get Ser Meryon to do it?”

 

She felt embolden by the look of shock on his face. She pulled herself up till she was kneeling on the bed so it was easier to stare into his eyes.

 

“I'm not afraid of you, they all are, but I'm not.”

 

He scoffed at her. He taunted her, “When did you stop? When you hit your head?”

 

“No, last night when I realized you won't hurt me.” She stared him in the eyes and didn't flinch. “You've had plenty of chances: you could have hurt me when you helped murder my father’s men. You could have let me shove Joffrey in the moat when you showed me my father’s head. You could have joined in anytime the Kingsguard beat me, or when Joffrey had me stripped at court. You could have left me for the mob. You could have forced yourself on me any number of times, I can't fight you off and no one would believe me! Even last night you could have slit my throat or let me fall off the roof or taken me against the wall when you pulled up my skirts! But you didn't and you haven't! Which makes me believe for all your mean and nasty words, all your scowls and growling you won't hurt me. So I'm not afraid of you.”

 

Sandor Clegane was silent. She wondered if anyone had ever spoken to him like that before.

 

“Why were you on the roof?” he asked quietly.

 

 

Sansa flinched, she was so sure that didn't happen. She knew she couldn't lie,“ I heard about Elia Martell.”

 

He crouched down so close their faces where almost touching.

 

“How the _fuck_ did you hear about her?”

 

“I heard Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion talk about what happened last time Kingslanding was sacked. They talked about what might happen to me when Lord Stannis finally attacks."

 

“Seven bloody hells!” he rasped under his breath.

 

“Is it true? Did your bother smash the little prince against a wall then rape Elia Martell with his blood and brains on his armor?” Sansa started shaking. “Was it in this room?”

 

“I don't know. I wasn't here.”

 

“Where were you?”

 

"I was out sacking the city.”

 

Sansa gapped at him. It made sense, but it was still horrifying.

 

“Then you know what's waiting for me!" she cried. "For men it's all fortune and glory. But I've learned for women its watching your children die horribly, then you die screaming. Men are given swords and armor, women are given courtesy and patience. That's why Jamie Lannister is alive and Elia Martell isn't.”

 

Sandor Clegane looked at her then. She didn't know what to make of what she saw in his face. She had only seen him angry, bored, annoyed or drunk. Pity from him was something she never thought she'd ever experience.

 

“That's why I went on the roof,” she finished.

 

“ I think I liked you better when you were nothing but a chirping empty headed bird,” he rasped. 

 

“Lollys Stokworth was given one of those talking birds from the Summer Isles. After a while it stopped eating. It pulled out its feathers and bashed its head into cage bars till it died," she said.

 

Sandor Clegane smirked, “ If I had to live with Lollys Stokworth I'd do the same thing!"

 

Sansa laughed even though she knew she shouldn't.

 

They stood there facing each other for a while.

 

He was first to drop his eyes.

 

“Get your shoes and cloak,” he said sliding his sword onto the sheath on his belt.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“The kitchens. You need food and I need wine.”

 


	7. But You Don't Really Mean It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reflects on how much she wants to go home. Sandor gets some validation he still is feared by everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long time between chapters. Stupid real life got in the way.
> 
> A lot of this takes place in Sansa's head. I hope you enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> *I also saw a BUNCH of typos when I posted. I hope I caught them all, sorry folks!

Sansa was surprised to find Ser Mandon Moore standing outside her door.

 

“What are you doing out here?” he demanded. “She’s supposed to stay in her room.”

 

“The King’s dog needs food, the little bird goes where the dog goes tonight,” the Hound raised an arm in invitation. “Are you going to stop me?”

 

Ser Mandon clinched his jaw and looked like he was considering a retort.

 

The Hound taunted him, “Go ahead and guard this empty room, or run back to whoever is giving you orders, it makes no difference to me.”

 

He grabbed her arm and half dragged her down the hall and around the corner.

 

He didn’t let go of her till they started descending the steps to the drawbridge out of Maegor’s Holdfast.

 

“Stay far away from that one girl,” he growled. “Never forget he left you for the mob.”

 

“Ser Meryn scares me more than he does,” she said quietly.

 

Clegane scoffed, “There are things that grow on old cheese that are scarier than Meryn Trant.”

 

Sansa licked her lips, letting her tongue run over the scar were Trant had hit her that day so long ago.; he had split her lip without question for daring to talk out of turn.

 

“Maybe for you,” she said watching him out of the corner of her eye.

 

His good side was towards her. He glared at her through his hair.

 

Feeling embolden, she crossed in front of him to walk on his burnt side as they crossed the dry moat.

 

The little act of defiance in the face of his façade made her giddy, as if for a spit second she had some control over the situation.

 

All of her bravado left her when they crossed the Lower Bailey. It wasn’t very late and there were so many people scurrying about. She heard drunken laughter from the stables.

 

“Pull your hood up girl,” Clegane told her. “Keep your eyes straight ahead, and don't talk to anyone.”

 

It seemed so much easier to navigate the Red Keep at the hour of the Wolf, when all the decent people were abed and all the drunks had long since passed out. Sansa felt incredible exposed. She was dressed only in her thick shift and cloak. Both garments covered her far more than her Southern style dresses, but they were plain and spoke nothing of her station. At the moment she wasn’t Sansa of House Stark, Ward of the Crown, she was a nameless girl out at night.

 

Sandor Clegane seem to sense her trepidation and gently put one of his large hands on her upper back. This gesture unfortunately did not go unnoticed.

 

“Oy beautiful, I'll pay you double what that ugly dog is!”

 

People were drinking in the upper stables. She and Clegane were heading to the small kitchen at the bottom of the Serpentine Steps, so they couldn’t circumvent the revelers.

 

“Bugger off Wendall,” the Hound snarled over her head. “Unless you want to see firsthand what the pox is doing to your insides!”

 

“I've got a face you can look at and ride!” the man yelled at Sansa and grabbed his crotch.

 

Suddenly the laughter inside the stable stopped and hands pulled the man back into the straw. She heard a not quite muffled conversation:

 

“Have you gone feeble, Wendall?”

“That was the fucking _Hound!_ He killed a man this morning because he was bored!”

“When you die can I have your saddle?”

 

She turned to the Hound for clarification, “What-?”

 

“Just keep walking,” he said. Then he chuckled.

 

They reached the kitchens without further incident.

 

***

 

The small kitchens where warm and empty save for a couple of cooks and a page playing dice in front of a cooking fire. They looked up at the sound of Clegane’s heavy boots on stone.

 

“Food, for me and the girl,” he rasped and they scuttled to their work with no comments.

 

“Sit,” he turned to Sansa and pointed to a worn table with benches instead of chairs. She did what she was bid as he disappeared into the store rooms.

 

Sansa sat on the bench nearest the fire and traced the worn grain of the table top with her thumb nail. Someone had carved B S + A D into the wood long ago. She ran her finger tips over the letters, stains and use had made them shallow, a ghost of their former selves. She wondered who these people were that would pledge their love to one another by defacing a table used by hundreds of people who wouldn’t notice or care. People did something similar in the North, only they chose pine trees that live for generations, not a surface that had dried egg and meat drippings on it every day.

 

It was just another thing that was wrong with this place. Another thing no one would explain to her, expecting her to understand everything with no context. Or worse, take her instructed ideals from her education and smash them to pieces just to see her disappointment or tears.

 

It wasn’t her fault she came from a place where no one really had time to weave complex lies or make up false, bitter stories. It wasn’t her fault her mother came from an idealistic community and had insisted on bringing those ideals to the North were no one had time to care.

 

When people or families had issue with each other in the North they talked plainly to each other, and if that didn’t work, they punched each other. Even the women. In the case of House Mormont, especially the women.

 

 Sansa smiled when she remembered the time she gave Theon Greyjoy a bloody nose for kissing her when they played _Come into My Castle_. She suppressed a giggle as she remembered how she let Robb take the fall for that. He had let the punishment fall on him because he was her brother and he should have done it first.

 

There were no true knights or true ladies in the North. People kept the Old Gods, knights were anointed by the Faith of the Seven and women needed to be able to fend off wolves with their apron while carrying a baby on their hip*. Her whole life she had been painted a rose colored portrait of courtly culture, her mother’s culture, and she couldn’t tell what hurt more; the fact her mother and Septa lied to her or that she couldn’t take back everything condescending she had ever said against her Northern roots and walk away.

 

 Given the chance Sansa would have sworn to the old gods that she would give up ever seeing another tourney or courtly singer or silk dress or lavish courtly party to be home in a wool dress with mud on the hem and have a big hairy brute of a husband with lackluster table manners, who’s entertaining sensibilities ran towards throwing axes at things and singing drunkenly along with the Hedgehog Song* or the Bear and Maiden Fair for the hundredth time.

 

At this moment she would have agreed to a husband of the island of Skagos, even though they ate their enemies, or a lesser son of House Umber, even though they considered a burp a form of polite greeting.

 

Sansa heard a raspy cough and craned her neck up to see Sandor Clegane standing over her with a flagon of wine in one hand and two cups in the other. His hair covered the burnt side of his face but she could still see his eyes glitter beneath it.

 

“Where’d you go little bird?” he asked sitting down across from her.

 

“Home,” she said and took the wine he offered her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I took these phrases straight from Terry Pratchett's Diskworld series. If you haven't read it, then do it!!


	8. You say You Don't Want it the Circus We're In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tells the Hound a story about trying to be a lady while growing up with older brothers.
> 
> Warning! This chapter deals with sibling torment and you can skip it if you need to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of things people forget is that Sansa grew up with basically three older brothers. Her ladylike behavior probably led to a lot of torment which is why I think she latched onto the idea of "True Knights" so whole heartedly. 
> 
> That being said this chapter is pretty gross; I mean school yard torment, I'm going to chase you around with something horrible on a stick gross.
> 
> Theon, Robb and Jon are all 13
> 
> Sansa is 11 Arya is 9
> 
> Theon Greyjoy is a total dick
> 
> Something similar happened to a friend of mine and its a story that gets told at every family reunion to embarrass her older brother.

The food arrived warm and aromatic. It was simple herb roasted chicken and leftover potatoes. Sansa gladly ate it all. Sandor Clegane ate with his hands and a knife. As she observed his table etiquette, she began to wonder if the title of the Hound was assigned to him and he molded himself around the idea or his behavior just had a label assigned to it.

 

She reached for another piece of chicken but he gave her a look warning her away.

 

“Little bird eats like a bird while dining with her beloved, but suddenly you’re stealing food off a man’s plate?” he sneered at her.

 

She felt her cheeks turning hot. _There must be two chickens on that plate, how was I supposed to know?_

“I am sorry my lord,” she said before dropping her eyes to her own empty plate.

 

“Again with the chirping.”

 

Sansa wanted to apologize for offending him, try to find some kind of polite conversation that would make watching him eat more palatable.

 

But she wasn’t in her right mind, which is how the truth came tumbling out; “Joffrey smells like a raccoon Theon GreyJoy found dead in the thatch of the stable at Winterfell.”

 

The Hound’s head shot up from his plate. “What in the seven hells are you talking about, girl?”

 

“His smell is….. not pleasant,” Sansa tried to salvage some self respect. “It reminds me of a not pleasant memory and makes it difficult for me enjoy a meal.”

 

“I know I’m going to regret asking this,” Sandor Clegane finished his wine and refilled his cup. ” So what happened that suddenly made you think your betrothed smelled like a dead animal?"

 

Sansa bit her bottom lip and told the story.

 

 

It had been a beautiful day in Winterfell. The kind where the sun was shining and the ground wasn’t too damp. Sansa’s skirts had stayed clean during her ride on her pony, Duchess, which had pleased her immensely. She was almost one and ten and by all accounts becoming a lady as poised and gracious as her mother.

 

She should have stayed away from the stable. Arya had nearly knocked her over running out the door with Jon on her heels.

 

“ _Ewwww that’s gross Theon!”_ her sister had shrieked. “ _Robb, you and Theon are gross!”_

 

If Arya had found something revolting, Sansa should have known it was particularly horrible, but she needed to return her pony. Whatever the offending item was, she was sure she could handle it with more grace than her little sister.

 

Sansa breezed into the stable, head held high and handed Duchess to the stable boy. She smoothed her skirts and was about to head out when the smell hit her. It was a putrid, sweet smell that lodged in the back of her throat. She turned; standing a few feet away from her was her brother Robb and Theon Greyjoy. Theon had something behind his back and they were both red with repressed laughter.

 

“Go away,” she spat. “You both smell horrible!”

 

Robb almost collapsed with giggles. Theon pulled out what he was hiding; it was a dead raccoon. It looked like a deflated bladder with tuffs of fur missing and its tail hanging on by a few pieces of flesh. He had jammed a stick through the back its skull and out its mouth.

 

Theon wiggled the raccoon so its lower jaw moved up and down then said out of the side of his mouth in a high falsetto voice, “Good afternoon, Lady Sansa!” Maggots fell out of its eyes.

 

Sansa screamed. She tripped over her skirts trying to back away and landed on her rump with an unlady like grunt

 

“Oh what’s the matter my lady?” Theon continued till the raccoon’s head gave way and the whole wretched thing fell in the dirt with a thump. Robb and Theon nearly collapsed in their mirth. Robb’s face had been red and blotchy with tears; Theon had bade like an ass.

 

It was Jory who had put an end to the disgusting ordeal. Alerted by Sansa’s screams he and two of her father’s household guard had burst into the stable, weapons drawn. He had looked from Sansa, to the boys, to the rotten animal on the ground. With lightning speed Jory grabbed Theon and Robb by the arm and shoved them out into the yard. Then he offered Sansa his hand and pulled her off the ground. He marched all three of them into the great hall to sit and await their fate.

 

It hadn’t been fair that she had been forbidden to ride her pony for a week; after all she had been the victim! Sansa, did however, feel somewhat vindicated that Robb and Theon had to take etiquette lessons from Septa Mordane and muck out the stables for a fortnight.

 

***

 

The Hound regarded her warily over his cup. Sansa had been confused how he had managed to finish his chicken during such a revolting story. After a few minutes she wanted to apologize for her uncouth dinner conversation and request forgiveness for her rudeness.

 

Instead she blurted out, “That’s why I don’t eat around Joffrey. “

 

The Hound slammed his cup on the table and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. She could hear him muttering under his breath, “Now I know why Balon gave the little shit up so easily.”

 

 He stood up suddenly and started to walk away.

 

“Where are you going?” she asked feeling a knot of dread in the pit of her stomach.

 

“To get more wine,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t move.”

 

As he walked away she could hear him say to himself, “Fucking Northerners, should have dragged that maid out of the little gargoyle’s bed.”

 


	9. How Many Fates Turn Around in the Overtime?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor go to the godswood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really got bit by the writing bug, so new chapter! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who liked the last one.

Sandor Clegane poured himself more wine and sat sipping it slowly looking into the hearth over her shoulder. He hadn’t said a word since she told him her little story. Sansa was glad he was sparing her the embarrassment of partaking in the most improper meal conversation she had perpetrated since she was eight and asked her father what the term “Stag Night” meant the morning before Robett Glover’s wedding.

 

 Sansa leaned her head against her hand, her eye lids felt heavy. The food had made her sluggish and the warmth from the fire relaxed her muscles. She closed her eyes and sagged against the table.

 

A playful tug on her hair made her sit up with an embarrassing snort.

 

_Arya?_

Instead the Hound laughed at her from across the table.

 

_He pulled my hair!_

“You're not supposed to be sleeping” he rasped at her.

 

Sansa reached up and felt the knot on her head. It hurt to the touch.

 

She stood up and swayed. Her stomach so happy to be full of food a moment ago suddenly lurched angrily and she sat back down on the bench so hard it creaked.

 

“Are you going to retch?” Clegane asked, watching her.

 

“Could I have some water, please?” she asked in a very small voice.

 

She heard him get up, talk to someone then sit next to her on the bench facing the fire.

 

“You’re going to be okay,” he said quietly.

 

“Have you ever had this problem?” she asked with her head in her hands.

 

Clegane chuckled, “Oh yes. Given it out to. You should have seen the Kingslayer, after the Hand’s Tourney. I knocked him so hard they had to take him to the blacksmith to remove his helm.”

 

Sansa’s stomach lurched again. Hearing about Ser Jamie reminded her how much her life hung in the balance. Her brother held him prisoner. If anything said at court was to be believed, his captivity was the reason she was still alive, but what was done to him would be done to her.  Her breath became shallow and quick, she felt like she was going to faint.

 

“Sansa?”

 

He put a big hand on her shoulder and studied her face.

 

“We should get out of this heat,” he said then drained his glass.

 

A cook brought her a glass of water and she drank it down gratefully. Clegane put on his cloak and grabbed a wine skin.

 

“I don’t want to go back to my room,” she said wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. She couldn’t stomach the idea of climbing all those steps.

 

“We’re not going back to Maegor’s till that bastard Mandon Moore has gotten bored and moved on,” he offered his hand to pull her up and she took it gratefully.

 

She thanked the cooks as they stepped out into the night.

 

***

 

The cool air did clear her head. She had no idea what time it was, but it seemed that the Keep had calmed down a bit.

 

“Where are we going?” she asked.

 

“Where do you usually go when you are running all over the Keep in the middle of the night?” he asked, trying to bait her.

 

Sansa held her head high, “The godswoods ser.”

 

She could hear him snicker behind his hair, “As you say little bird.”

 

As they headed to the Middle Bailey she heard him say, “And stop calling me ser. “

 

“Then how am I supposed to address you?” she asked in earnest. This had been a long and confusing argument between them that had never resolved itself.

 

“You could go by what the King does and call me: dog,” he replied. “Or you could call me Sandor.”

 

“The first is rude and the second improper,” she said with conviction.

 

Clegane barked out a laugh and stopped her, cupping her chin so she look into his ruined face.

 

“We’re walking around the Keep in the middle of the night and you’re wearing nothing but nightclothes and slippers,” he said softly. “I think use of my given name is not your most improper action right now.”

 

Sansa felt the blush bloom on her face and she pulled her cloak tight.

 

He watched her for a second before dropping her chin.

 

 ***

 

The Middle Baily was completely deserted as they passed under the Tower of The Hand. Sansa’s slippers were silent on the stones as were The Hound’s calf skin boots.

 

As they passed by the library Clegane tapped her on the shoulder.

 

“”Last chance to tell me a story little bird,” he teased.

 

She scrunched up her face in mock outrage, he chuckled.

 

The entrance of the godswoods was in front of them when the Hound froze. He cocked his head like his name sake and stared behind them.

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” he growled under his breath and pulled her into the shadows.

 

Sansa tugged on his cloak, he put his hand over her mouth and pressed her flush with the brick of the tower that held the library.

 

Faintly she heard the clink of armor in the distance.

 

_It’s the Gold Cloaks. They always walk around the Tower of the Hand at night._

She heard the Hound breathing beside her. His hand went to his sword as two men in  Kingsguard’s armor passed by them. Sansa watched them split up; one going to the Tower of Hand, the other into the library passing feet from where they hid.

 

Clegane took his hand from her mouth and motioned for her to follow him. They hugged the stone wall till they entered the godswood where the darkness swallowed them whole.

 

***

 

The Hound was furious.

 

“Buggering Mandan Moore. Buggering Kettleblack.”

 

“Whats going on?” Sansa asked.

 

“You really know nothing do you?” he snapped at her.

 

“No I don’t!” she said stopping in her tracks. “Because no one will tell me!”

 

Clegane stood in front of her. The moon was at his back, she couldn’t see his face.

 

Sansa was incensed. There was something really important going on, and he wasn’t telling her.

 

“This whole place, the way people act here… it makes me feel like I did when I asked someone to explain sex to me! My septa gave me a speech about flowers and marriage but I ended up having to go with Arya and her weird friend Mellory to the kennels! Do you have any idea how confusing it is to try and figure out what everyone else seems to know instinctively?! Especially when everything you are told is in allegory or poetry?!”

 

Sandor Clegane laughed.

 

“It's not fair!” She threw her hands up in frustration. “Did you know the leader of the house of Mormont claims to have fathered her children with a bear?! Do you know what it was like the first time I saw a bear? I ended up spending a very confusing evening trying to puzzle that out with my friend Jeyne!”

 

Sandor Clegane stopped laughing, he leaned very close to her.

 

“Your friend Jeyne, was she the one who came with you? The one who followed you around giggling like a ninny and swooning over any buggering knight in shiny armor? She knew less than you did?”

 

Sansa suddenly felt very alone.

 

“Yes, I wish I knew where she was.”

 

Impossibly his mood darkened.

 

“Stay away from Littlefinger,” he snarled.

 

“Littlefinger? Petyr Baelish? “

 

“If he talks to you, you tell me.”

 

“The only time I can remember he's ever said anything to me was after Ser Loras gave me a rose at the Tourney for my father.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“He told me my mother was his queen of love and beauty once. Then he touched my hair and ran off.”

 

The Hound let out a low growl.

 

“Why do you hate Lord Baelish so much? “  She was tired of having to coax information out of him.

 

“The Spider schemes because he has no dick. Littlefinger schemes because he has a tiny dick. And he's always trying to stick it where it doesn't belong.”

 

There was something she couldn’t quiet see. It was like one of the mosaics in the crypts of The Sept of Baelor. Up close it was nothing more than a grid of randomly placed colored tiles, but when seen from across the room the sharpness of their edges faded to form a larger picture, almost seamless in its entirety.

 

“Why do you hate ser Mandon so much? Why was he and Ser Osmund walking around? Were they looking for us?”

 

The Hound sighed.

 

“The reason I don't trust Mandon Moore is because he was put on the Kingsguard by Jon Arryn, even though he hated the man. Which means your aunt Lyssa wanted him there. Which means Littlefinger wants him there.”

 

 

Sansa tried to comprehend what was going on. What did her aunt have to do with all of this?

 

“I hate him because he left you for the mob and I'm pretty sure it was more than to protect the king,” Sandor Clegane continued.“I don’t know why he and that little shit Kettleblack are wandering around right now. But I do know Joffrey never told _ser_ Mandon to stand outside your door tonight. Something is going on and it reeks of Littlefinger’s scheming.”

 

Sansa stared up into darkened his face. His long hair stirred in the light breeze blowing off the bay.

 

 “Like I said, if Littlefinger talks to you again, tell me.”

 

“Why, what would you do?”

 

“Finish what your uncle Brandon started.”


	10. Here, here, here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor Clegane and Sansa hide in the godswood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to again thank everyone who has stuck it out for the last 9 chapters. Your comments make me want to write more!
> 
> Don't worry there will be smut soon, but for now enjoy the story :)

 

They walked side by side further into the godswood. The trees became closer together, the shadows deeper. Sansa’s slippers became damp and cold from the moist dirt. The Hound had lapsed into brooding silence.

 

She had so many questions. She had to pick the one she thought the Hound would answer without scoffing at her or calling her stupid. She sorted her thoughts and took a risk.

 

“Sandor?”

 

The big man stopped short and faced her. She had his full attention and it was unnerving.

 

“Do you think Litt- Lord Baelish had something to do with the riot?”

 

“I don't know,” he replied. “I do know that a starving woman carrying a dead baby shouldn't have gotten passed the gold cloaks. I know that Aron Santagar should have been able to cut his way to safety and the High Septon had been giving The Crown shit for owing the Faith money ever since this buggering war started. I also know that Lady Stokworth wanted to get Lollys married off and Littlefinger had been going to Stokworth dinners.”

 

His face twisted in anger and his voice was raw: “I also don't like getting set up. I have no illusions, if it wasn't for your horse I would have been very lucky to make it back to the Keep in one piece.”

 

He leaned over, his voice was raspy and quiet,“ Someone knew if Joffrey got a face full of shit, he'd send me out in the crowd. Someone wanted me off my horse and in the thick of things. I was surrounded by hundreds of people who didn't know how to kill a chicken, but managed to butcher a fat Septon. They knew how to overpower the Master of Arms. They knew exactly which lady to rape so her claim to her family's rich lands disappeared.”

 

The Hound leaned in closer, she could smell the wine on his breath. He reached out and grasped a lock of her hair.

 

“Then there was you,” he rasped softly. “Catelyn Tulley’s little doppelgänger.”

 

Sansa was unnerved by the way he was looking at her hair in the moonlight.

 

“Litterfinger always had your aunt Lyssa in the palm of his hand. Probably in more ways than one. I wouldn't be surprised if that sniveling little whelp of hers was Baelish’s get.” The Hound smirked, “But it was your lady mother that always made his breeches tight. He would tell anyone who stood still long enough how he took your mother’s maidenhead back before your uncle came along.”

 

Sansa smacked his hand off her hair. Clegane stood there in shock..

 

Sansa dug down deep in the pit of her despair. She focused all the rage, pain and regret she carried with her like a cancer and flung it at the Hound.

 

She looked into his eyes and through clinched teeth she hissed _“Fuck you!”_

 

Sandor Clegane stood in front of her, eyes wide. The burnt side of his mouth twitched. Sansa never faltered in her gaze.

 

He suddenly straightened up, his massive shoulders shaking in the dark. Then he threw his head back and laughed.

 

Sansa thought he sounded as raspy and forlorn as a feral dog howling at the moon.

 

***

 

The Hound almost collapsed in the dirt he was laughing so hard. Tears made their way down the ridges of his burnt face as he leaned hard against one of the trees.

 

Sansa wanted to hit him.

 

“Just stop it!”

 

He managed to regain his composure long enough to produce a wine skin from somewhere and took a long drink. He offered it to her and she snapped it up.

 

He smiled at her and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his tunic.

 

“Where did that come from, little bird?”

 

“Don't talk about my mother like that!” She took a long drink of wine, then tried to repress the urge to spit it out.

 

“I'm sorry,” he said unconvincingly. “I never thought that mustached little shit got in your mother’s small clothes.”

 

He eyed her and moved to grab the wineskin, but she stepped back.

 

“What would your lady mother think of your language?”

 

“I've said it before!” she snapped, and danced just out of reach as he lunge for the wineskin again.

 

“At your sister no doubt or was it at that little squid Theon Greyjoy?” he asked as she managed to avoid him again.

 

Embolden she took another drink and coughed. “No, it was at a wedding!”

 

The Hound chuckled. He moved so fast she didn't have time to react. His hand caught her arm.

 

“Drop it,” he commanded, and she did. He caught the wineskin and took a drink, his grip like iron on her arm.

 

“I thought you Northerners didn't have weddings. You just threw a woman over your horse and rode away," he laughed.

 

“That's Wildlings!” Sansa tried to twist in his grasp.

 

“Then you should be more careful around the Tower of the Hand,” he taunted her as he tighten his grip on her.

 

“Lord Tyrion’s Wildlings aren't proper Wildlings!"she snapped at him trying to get her fingers under his big hand to pry him off her arm.

 

"So there are _proper_ Wildings now?" he pulled her toward him till her shoulder slammed into his chest.

 

"Are they like true knights?" she could feel his breath on the crown of her head. "Do they say "I'm terribly sorry" when they're done raiding a village?"

 

Something inside Sansa snapped. She smacked her palm in the middle of his chest and tried to shove him away. For a moment she could feel his heart beat under his hand. The intimacy of the moment made her tummy flutter.

 

"If they were proper Wildlings I would have thrown myself over one of their shaggy ponies and screamed at them to ride hard till we got to Moat Cailin!” she yelled at him. She did not like how being this close to him made her feel.

 

The Hound thankfully dropped her arm and doubled over with laughter.

 

When he finally regained his composure he shook his head and rasped, “Oh girl you're going to be the death of me."

 

“Is there somewhere to sit down in here or do you just sit in the mud?" he managed.

 

“There's a bench by the reflecting pool,” she acquiesced.

 

“Lead on,” he said with a sweep of his arm.

 

***

 

The bench was not small, but Clegane took up most of it. Sansa had to sit half off the side to keep a respectable distance.

 

He look another drink and offered her the rest. She waved it away.

 

They sat in silence for a while, watching the moon above the walls and listening to the wind through the trees. The silence and the wine was making her sleepy.

 

“Stop dozing, little bird.”

 

“I'm so tired,” she whimpered.

 

“Gods, You think I'm not?” he snapped at her.

 

“Why are you being so mean?” she rubbed her eyes like a small child needing a nap.

 

Sandor Clegane exhaled through his nose.

 

“Tell me the story behind this wedding you went to where you used unladylike language.”

 

“Do you really want to hear about it?”

 

“Does it have Theon Greyjoy being a weird little shit?”

 

“No,” she said softly. "But there were hounds."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, credit where credit is due. The Hound's theory about the riot of Kingslanding was inspired by the amazing Preston  
> Jacobs. If you ever want to see wonderfully crafted and brilliantly executed A Song of Ice and Fire analysis videos, check out his channel on YouTube. 
> 
> The video that inspired me was the 2nd installment of the "Littlefinger's Debt Scheme" series.


	11. She's Addicted to Nicotine Patches Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tells the Hound the tale of the morning before the wedding of Robett Glover and Sybelle Locke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole chapter is a huge chunk of AU written with TWT all over it. Try not to think too much about it :)
> 
> No beta, sorry
> 
> 99% of what Old Nan says is inspired by Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, in particular the Withes books.  
> The reason I am doing this is because I always imagined the North as a place like Lancre and Terry Prachett is my favorite author of all time and if you think Old Nan is funny, then you should look up his work.
> 
> Also the hounds in this chapter are inspired by the Caucasian Wolfhound

Sansa grasped a fist full of fur and buried her face in the hound’s coat. The ice crystals from the early morning frost prickled her face, but the animal was warm and alive under her cheek. They were the largest dogs Sansa had ever seen. She was eight and she was not tall enough to see over its back. It had a huge blocky head, a strong body and sturdy legs. Its fur was grey and fluffy, its eyes glittered from a black face. Sansa took a deep breath. The hound smelled of earth, pine and musk.  She nuzzled her face against the thick fur.

 

The hound’s mouth was slack and when it shook its big head she got a spray of drool on her dress. She squealed and giggled then tried to rub it off with a kerchief. The breeder from Last Hearth was talking to her father and Uncle Benjen.

 

“…they can be trained to be as gentle as lambs with children, and furious enough to keep the Wildlings on their own damn side of the wall!”

 

Everyone laughed. One of the breeder’s retainers pulled the dog away from Sansa and fastened a harness around its middle then lashed it to the support bars of a small cart. Sansa’s father lifted her up and set her on one of cart's the benches as Robb and Jon climbed in by themselves. Arya was so excited she was practically vibrating with all the joy a six year old could muster. Uncle Benjen set her next to Sansa. The retainer took up a leash and guided the hound around the yard of Deepwood Motte.

 

The yard bustled with people from all over the North. Robett Glover was marrying Sybelle Locke and it was the first major house wedding since the end of the Greyjoy rebellion. Everyone (even the sour faced Lord Bolton) was in the mood to celebrate. Her father had brought Sansa, Robb, Jon and Arya with a small group of his household to Deepwood Motte to honor the newlyweds. Even her Uncle Benjen was given leave to come as a representative of the Nights Watch. Her mother was left at Winterfell with her littlest brother Bran. Lady Stark was at the end of a very difficult pregnancy and Bran was too young to travel. They were also expecting a ward from the Iron Islands, Theon Greyjoy, although Sansa really didn’t understand what that meant.

 

The trip took a couple of days; they brought wagons of meat, wheat and barrels of dark beer for the wedding. Septa Mordane also accompanied them along with Old Nan. The Septa was from the Riverlands and had never been to a Northern wedding. She spent most of the trip educating the children on how Southern weddings were conducted. Old Nan had sat next to her to interject any differences between the cultures.

 

“Engagements start when the parents of the girl and the boy decide it would be advantageous for their houses to join,” Sept Mordane began.

 

“Usually because the girl has an observant mother who has words with the boy’s mother and both fathers have gotten over themselves,” Old Nan explained.

 

“The length of the engagement is usually a year,” her Septa said with conviction.

 

“It’s best to have the ceremony before the dress has to have its hem let out,” Old Nan said with a sly smile.

 

“The announcement of the engagement is always followed by a party,” the Septa proclaimed.

 

“Of course! So both families can size each other up to see if any special weapons need to be brought to the ceremony!” Old Nan exclaimed.

 

“In the South the groom picks a best man to assist him with his duties. This man should be responsible because he has to make sure the groom is ready on the morning of the ceremony,” Septa Mordane gestured to Robb.

 

“Hopefully in a reasonable condition, and is vertical, alive or at least present,” said Old Nan wisely.

 

Septa Mordane began listing off; “The best man has the duties of welcoming the family….”

 

“And confiscate the larger weapons from the guests…” Old Nan warned.

 

“Make sure the family cloak is clean and pressed…”

 

“Scrub the boot polish off the groom's face and cover up any inappropriate pictures his mates drew on his face the night before…”

 

“During the reception, the best man should make sure the family finds their seats….”

 

“And knows who in the family makes the best ale…”

 

“He should be respected by all families present.”

 

“And have a good head for drink.”

 

“The bridesmaids are there to help the bride dress and be ready to help in any way they can.”

 

“They are carefully chosen by the bride to make her look good by comparison.”

 

“They are given crowns of flowers to wear.”

 

“Usually roses to cover the smell of stale beer coming off the groom and his men.”

 

“After the ceremony, there is a banquet with a variety of specialty foods…”

 

“Make sure the beer is strong so when opposing families go to attack each other they’re so drunk they miss.”

 

And so it went….

 

***

 

The hound's cart finished its circle around the yard and stopped in front of her father. Sansa jump out over the side and into the mud without caring that it splattered on the hem of her skirt. Arya tried to follow her, but she slipped and fell with a splat. Everyone laughed.

 

Arya never cried or whined; she got angry. Uncle Benjen scooped her up by her arm pits and carried her into the hall for a bath and a change of clothes, ignoring the horrible scowl on her face.

 

Sansa skipped after her, but was stopped short by a horrible snarling behind her. The hound that had pulled the cart was lunging at a straw practice dummy. Small Jon Umber was holding on to a rope fastened around its collar but the animal was so strong even with him leaning all his bulk back he was still being dragged through the mud. The hound’s mouth was open impossibly wide, displaying teeth as long as Sansa's hand, lips curled back exposing black gums. Drool was flying from its mouth as it let out terrifying loud barks and threw itself forward.

 

“ _Let it go Umber!”_

 

The hound leap forward using its weight to tear down the dummy before latching its boxy head onto the neck. It whipped its head back and forth sending straw and burlap flying through the air. It let out the scariest noises Sansa had ever heard. The trainer whistled and the dog trotted back to his side, its mouth open in a panting smile. The trainer reached into a bag by his feet and tossed the hound a cow bone as long as Arya was tall. As the men talked and laughed, the hound made short work of the bone. Sansa felt a shiver run down her spine as its powerful jaws snapped the bone in half with a horrible, loud crack. Then the hound began to lick out the marrow enthusiastically. She fled into the hall.


	12. She's Addicted to Nicotine Patches Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa continues with her story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Long chapter! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> I think I got all the typos, please let me know if any big ones stick out!

Sansa walked aimlessly through the great hall of Deepwood motte. Her pause to watch the hound viciously destroy the straw dummy had caused her to get separated from her family and the crowds of adults flooding the hall made her wring her hands in anxiety.

 

She suddenly remembered something the Hunting Master of Winterfell said to her; “If you are ever lost in the woods, stay put in one place and let the search party come to you. “

 

Sansa found an empty bench at the end of one of the long tables by the hearth. She pulled herself up and sat up straight. Certainly her father and uncle Ben Jen would notice her missing and send a search party after her.

 

Deepwood Motte was not as big as Winterfell, but it was full of adults rushing around in preparation for the feast. Around her women were scouring the tables, cleaning the giant hearths and laying down new rushes. Men where hauling chairs, sweeping up old rushes and setting up instruments on a dais built for the wedding. She stared at wonder at the size of the drums; a far cry from the simple hand held ones the singers at Winterfell used these drums where constructed out of shiny copper bowls so big they could have held enough water for Arya and Bran to have a comfortable bath. The pipers where testing their instruments, large bladders covered in fabric, filled with air that let out a sweet high pitch whine that was abrasive at first, but awoke something in Sansa’s soul that made her blood quicken.

 

She had been so engrossed with the musicians, she had not noticed three men she didn’t recognized sit heavily at the far end of the table. They must of not noticed her because they started talking in that deep tone adults used when they didn’t think children were around to hear.

 

“Oh gods, I woke up this morning thinking something shit in my mouth and died in my head,” said a man with a long brown beard. He took a long pull of ale from his mug and didn’t seem to care that some spilled into his beard.

 

“Yeah, but what a party!” exclaimed his younger companion who sported a close cropped black beard and short hair. “Did you see that wench with the big teats? I don’t care how warm it’s gotten; I’d die a happy man with my ears warmed by those udders!”

 

All the men laughed that secret laugh men do when they think no one is listening.

 

“You two are too young to remember The Greatjon’s stag party,” teased an old man with a long white beard stained by the dark beer he was drinking. “I tell you true, I never thought I’d ever see Ned Stark that in his cups! The cattle gave the queerest tasting milk for a fortnight after that!”

 

They laughed again and drank. Sansa was fascinated. Adults usually became mysteriously quiet and soft spoken around her. Was this some secret way men talked when she wasn’t around. Was this some secret code of maturity she had yet to learn? Apparently her father knew it and probably spoke it in private.

 

And what of this party they had last night? This "Stag Night"? Father had promise her that they would be participating in all the events of the wedding; she had brought several dresses to make sure she was properly dressed for each. From what they said about the gathering last night it sounded like it had been important.

 

“Lord Stark has the wee ones with him this time,” said the man with brown beard. “Even brought his bastard.”

 

“Did you see the oldest girl?” the youngest man asked with a twinkle in his eye. “She’s the spitting image of her lady mother. Going to put many a man in his grave with a broken heart when she grows up. Especially if she grows a set like her aunt had!”

 

The eldest man punched the younger so hard in the arm both of their beers sloshed out of their cups.

 

“Don’t talk like that,” the man with the brown beard scolded. “If Benjen Stark hears you, he’ll make your nose touch your ears on both sides! Ned Stark might introduce you to his family’s sword if he heard! “ He raised his mug to his lips, then made a disgusted face and sneered,” She’s a little girl you mad fucker!”

 

The younger man’s smile never wavered, “Eh, fuck you! Let’s see how high and mighty you are when she’s a maid and you’re so old your pick doesn’t work anymore!”

 

Sansa blushed down to her toes. She was very suddenly grateful that the men had not noticed her and the sudden change in air from an open door caused the smoke from a newly lit hearth to conceal her from them. She knew they were talking about her, even though she didn’t understand what they were saying. It must have been bad if Uncle Benjen would have hit the man with a black beard. And what was this word “fuck”? She had never heard it before in her life. Was it part of the secret language of adults that no one would explain to her?

Sansa considered making herself known and demand them to explain themselves. That’s what Old Nan would have done. On the other hand, Septa Mordane would have told her to ignore such rude conversation and carry herself like nothing they said could upset her.

 

It didn’t seem to matter, the men had drunk their beer and moved on, leaving Sansa to rub the smoke out of her eyes and sit stewing in her confusion.

 

“Oh there you are!”she heard a voice cut through the crowd.

 

Sansa looked up to see Old Nan working her way to her side.

 

“You’re missing out on breaking your fast my dear,” the old woman smiled.

 

“I got lost,” Sansa said and took Old Nan’s offered hand.

 

Old Nan tutted at her as they walked to the Glover’s solar. Sansa was relieved to leave the strange world of adult conversation behind her.

 

 

***

 

  
Sansa was greatful to find only her family breaking their fast in the Glover’s solar. She had so many questions, but the only one she thought would be important was the one regarding the missed gathering the night before.

 

“Father? What is a Stag Party?” she asked as she daintily laid her napkin in her lap.

 

Her uncle Benjen blanched, Septa Mordane fixed her with a look and Old Nan laughed her high cackle. Her father’s face never twitched as he chewed his sausage.

 

Lord Stark finished his mouth full of food and took a drink of dark beer before asking, “My dear sweet daughter, where perchance did you hear of a “Stag Party’”?

 

Sansa studied the adults as she served herself some buttermilk, “Some men by the hearth were talking about it taking place last night. They said you missed it.” She decided that mentioning the cattle at Greatjon Umber’s party was not going to help her get answers.

 

“Is that where they eat stag?” Robb chimed in, curiosity peaked. “Or are the Baratheons here?”

 

“They don’t eat stag, they eat chicken, stupid!” Arya piped up from across the table. She was newly scrubbed and redressed from the earlier incident in the yard.

 

The adults all snapped around to look at her sister in wonder.

 

“What makes you say that, my poppet?” Old Nan cooed as she smoothed down Arya’s wet hair.

 

“Because I heard some maids talking about how Lord Karstark had to get Maege Mormont to get her battle axe so they could get Lord Glover out of the chicken coop! They said he was tied up and the door was bolted from the inside.” Arya stated matter of factually.

 

“Oh, really?” Uncle Benjen said his face contorted with suppressed laughter.

 

“Of course!” Arya gestured with her knife as if everyone at the table had gone feeble in the head. “Why would you lock yourself in a chicken coop unless you wanted no one to bug you while you chose the chicken you were going to eat?”

 

Old Nan cackled again, Septa Mordane made a face as if her food suddenly became rotten and Uncle Benjen held his face in hands, his shoulders shaking, his ears red.

 

The moment was broken when Jeyne Poole came galloping into the room shrieking, “The Queen is here! The Queen is here! The Queen is here!”

 

Uncle Benjen wiped the tears from his eyes and exchanged a look with her father. As one the adults stood up and filed out of the room.

 

Lacking any approval or denial of action, Sansa and her siblings fell into line behind them.

 

***

 

The yard had become remarkably more crowded as the morning had progressed. Sansa and her family had to dodge people after they left the hall to investigate the supposed arrival of the Queen. Sansa was trembling; she never thought the Queen would come all the way up from Kingslanding to a wedding of her father’s bannerman. She had never seen Her Grace, but was eager to see the woman who was supposed to be so beautiful that King Robert married her after losing her aunt Lyanna in the war.

 

From a simply ornamented wheel house not far from the stables stepped the most beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen. She was tall, but not towering, with skin the color of cream. She was dressed in a silver cloak trimmed with ermine and a dress of grey and red shot through with shimmering gossamer threads. She pushed back the hood and shook out her wavy white-gold tresses. She turned to Sansa’s father and smiled with lips as pink as a snow poppy. Her eyes where violet.

 

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. This couldn’t be the Queen; this had to be a lost Targaryen princess.

 

Lord Stark smiled at the woman and addressed the hulking hairy brute of man by her side.

 

“Ser Jorah,” her father spoke with warmth. “My steward’s daughter seems to believe your lady wife is the Queen herself.”

 

 _Ser?_ This was a knight? The man was barrel chested and as hairy as the hound that had pulled the cart that morning.

 

The knight and his wife laughed; his laughed was deep, and hers like tinkling bells.

 

“Lord Stark,” the knight said. “May I present to you and your family, my wife, Lady Lynesse of House Hightower.”

 

The lady dropped into a curtsy so gracefully that her skirts swirled around her like ripples on the surface of a still pool.

 

Sansa dropped a curtsy considerable less graceful, but better than Arya’s who looked like she just squatted then righted herself. Robb bowed as did Jon, though Jon seemed uncomfortable.

 

The adults spoke some more, but Sansa wasn’t listening. She was watching Lady Hightower; how the sun shone in her hair, the way she held herself perfectly still with her hands effortlessly clasped in front of her, how her skirt although long did not seem to touch the dirt. Sansa was enchanted.

 

Lady Hightower appeared to feel Sansa’s eyes on her. After her father dismissed them and was distracted by someone in the stables, Sansa stayed behind. Lady Hightower smiled at her then knelt down in front of her.

 

“Good morning, my lady Sansa,” Lady Hightower said sweetly. Sansa could feel the blush rise in her cheeks. “Have you been enjoying the festivities?”

 

Sansa managed to chirp out an answer.

 

Lady Hightower gently touched her cheek, “I hope I find the wedding events as enjoyable as you have, my Lady.” She dipped in another graceful curtsy.

 

Sansa chirped out another courtesy and returned the curtsy. The pair turned and glided their way into the yard.

 

All her life Sansa had been told stories of the Lords and Ladies of the southern kingdoms. She had never seen one before today and she was surely not going to let the opportunity to learn her secrets slip through her fingers.

 

***

 

Sansa followed Lady Hightower for the rest of the afternoon. She ducked behind buildings and hid behind fence posts, all the while studying the way the woman moved as to learn how to carry herself like a great Southern Lady. Lady Hightower moved with effortless grace around Deepwood Motte. Her hair seemed to always be blown off her face by a soft wind felt only by her, her skirts swished with every movement as to not drag in the mud and everywhere she went she drew the eyes of everyone around her. Men seem to lose track of what they were talking about, women dropped their conversation into quiet tones and even the children stopped and out right stared.

 

Sansa figured out that Lady Hightower had added an extra hitch to her step. This caused her skirts to swirl up as she walked and not catch on the filth on the ground. Sansa tried to copy this move, but instead ended up hoping around on one foot as if she was skipping while dizzy. She could hear the laughter of Arya directed at her when they passed the stables, but Sansa held her head high; once she mastered this she would never have filth on her skirts again and Arya would look the fool.

 

Before they entered the great hall for the afternoon meal, Lady Hightower turned to where Sansa thought she was cleverly hiding.

 

“Would you like to join me for the afternoon meal, Lady Sansa?” she asked graciously.

 

Sansa tried to round the barrel she was ducking behind with as much dignity as possible. She strolled up to Ser Jorah and his wife as if she just happened to be walking by, not stalking the woman like she was deer for the last two hours.

 

Lady Hightower invited Sansa to sit on her right, her husband sat across from them looking pleased that his wife was spending time with his highlord’s daughter. Lady Hightower didn’t seem to notice the mud caked on Sansa’s dress, nor commented on what a tangled mess her long red tresses had become.

 

As Lady Hightower elegantly ate a dish of white fish fried with butter, she told Sansa all about her family and where she grew up in the Reach. She answered all of Sansa’s questions about tourneys, dances, feasts and parties. She told the tale of the tourney where her big bear of a husband won her hand after fighting valiantly in the Greyjoy rebellion.

 

Sansa sat in rapt awe. The singers were wrong; life in the South was so much better than anything she could imagine. Lady Hightower promised her if she ever came to Winterfell she would show her some of the steps to dances popular in the Reach.

 

After the meal, Lady Hightower asked for her leave ( _asked her! As if she was as great a Lady as her mother!!!_ ) to rest before the wedding. Sansa racked her brain for a moment to remember the proper words for dismissing people and finally babbled them out. Lady Hightown smiled and dropped a curtsy, as her knightly husband bowed with a tad less grace. Sansa tried to return the curtsy with one of the new tricks she had learned through her morning of observation. But instead she ended up looked foolish as if she was trying to flap her skirts up and down.

 

Lady Hightower smiled without mocking and took her leave on the arm of her knight.

 

Sansa, her heart light as the gossamer strands on Lady Hightower’s dress skipped back to the stables to find Arya and hopefully the rest of her family.

 


End file.
